The Malfoy estate loomed before you, its grand halls and immaculate gardens a testament to centuries of wealth and power. You had been here countless times before—pureblood society was small, after all—but never like this. Never as a bride.

Your family and his had been circling each other for years, bound by business, politics, and the unspoken rule that purebloods married their own. You had known this day was coming in some form, yet somehow, it still felt like a betrayal.

Draco stood across from you in the opulent sitting room, as perfectly put together as always. He wore dark green robes, the Malfoy crest embroidered into the silk, his pale hands adjusting the cuffs with practiced ease.

This is a nightmare.

“You can’t be serious,” you finally bit out, arms crossed tightly over your chest. “There has to be another option.”

Draco smirked, the expression as sharp as a dagger. “Trust me, darling, I’m not thrilled about it either.”

His drawl sent irritation curling through you. Darling. He had always used pet names like weapons, little jabs disguised as charm.

Your parents sat nearby, discussing logistics with Lucius and Narcissa, their voices a low hum of agreements and expectations. No one cared that you and Draco hated each other. No one cared that you had spent your Hogwarts years as rivals, always trying to outdo one another.

Enemies. That’s what you were. Draco had made sure of it. From the first time he had sneered at your family name to every single hex exchanged in the dim corridors of Hogwarts, he had always made it clear: you were not an ally, not a friend—certainly not someone he would ever choose

Draco lifted a hand as if to touch you, but at the last second, he withdrew, his mask slipping back into place.

“You’ve always been dramatic,” Draco continued, tilting his head. “What’s so unbearable about the idea of being my wife?”